Consequences of falling

There was once a very good man. He called his wife by her first
name: Bella. He got out of bed and went into the hallway whenever he
needed to let off wind.

He found time everywhere. Found time in the park for teaching his son
how to play frisbee; showing him with a gentle grace that it was all in
the wrist action. He found time at work to put new colleagues at ease:
"I know the boss looks a rhino but he's really not all that bad - more
like a warthog." In actual fact, the good man had a lot of respect for
his boss, whom he called Bill. He thought that Bill was doing a
difficult job very well.

He was a very good man. He did his share of housework and, if his wife
seemed tired, he'd willingly do more than his fair share. He would find
a moment to take the dishes from the draining board and stack them
quietly in their right places. Although he knew it to be a minor task
he believed that its impact on the kitchen's appearance was
disproportionate to the effort it took to complete. By making the
kitchen seem that much cleaner he imagined making Bella's day that
little bit better.

On the bus, he always stood.

One day the very good man heard the dow dow dow of a football bouncing
in his back yard. He went out the back to look for the ball to throw it
back to its owners: a group of boys who often had a kickabout on the
green behind the house. The man thought that young people got a hard
time of it, being stereotyped as hoodlums when they are so often just
normal, good kids trying to have a little fun. He found the football
and was about to throw it back over the fence when he heard his name
called from his neighbour, Mrs Teeley's garden. He stood on a milk
crate to talk over the wall to the old lady who he respected a great
deal. The good man felt that old people were commonly patronised and
treated inhumanely.

"Good morning, Mrs Teeley."

"Don't you dare give them they're ball back, they're bloody terrors,"
she said.

He respected the woman and could empathise with her point of view. He
was about to reply reasonably when he heard a boy's voice calling from
the green.

"Please, sir, can we have our ball back. We'll be more careful next
time."

The good man started to reply but Mrs Teeley butted in.

"Lying little bastards, there won't be a next time. Half killed me I
swear, I'll have a heart attack if that thing comes near me."

"Please sir, I promise we'll be careful. We'll play somewhere
else."

The good man thought about being young. He remembered what it used to
be like to mean well and be wrongly accused. He thought about being old
too. Society is increasingly ignoring old people, shoving them under
the carpet, he thought.

The good man looked back and forth from the boys in the park to the
woman in her garden. Slowly, ever so slowly, he realised
something.

He turned to Mrs Teeley and he spat on her face, catching her on an
eyebrow. Then the man took the football and put it down on the lawn. He
picked up the tiller that he was using in his rose garden. With a smile
he brought it down hard on the ball which collapsed with the relieved
sound of an embarassing, unacceptable fart.